


le coeur d'un mortel

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Français | French, Gift Giving, M/M, Multilingual Character, Poetry, Reading Aloud, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, my dear Combeferre, there is nothing that cannot, in time, upset me. Whether it be poetry or the lives of the distressed. We do not live in a perfect world, and it is better for my sadness to be sweetened by beauty. At least for a time. Baudelaire is that beauty, and I thank you for it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	le coeur d'un mortel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sashaatthebarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sashaatthebarricade).



> Les Mis Trick or Treat prompt: Prouvaire/Combeferre being complete bookish nerdy boyfriends. Canon era or modern AU.
> 
> There was a time that I was worried that I would have to drop out of the Trick or Treat, but I was determined to at least try to create a suitable fill. In the end this fic and the research surrounding it was a good distraction.
> 
> The two poems referenced are _Le Cygne_ (The Swan) and _À une Mendiante Rousse_ (To a Mendicant Redhead) from Charles Baudelaire's _Les Fleurs du mal_ (1857). English translations (hopefully) provided in hover text above have been taken from William Aggeler's 1954 translation _The Flowers of Evil_. 
> 
> Émile Deroy's painting _The Small Red-Headed Beggar_ is also referenced. 
> 
> The title is taken from Le Cygne, dedicated to Victor Hugo, and the full quotation that it comes from is _'la forme d'une ville change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d'un mortel'_ and in translation, _'the form of a city changes more quickly, alas! than the human heart'_ (I really like that quote.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy your Halloween treat Suzi/sashaatthebarricade!

“Oh, it is a book of the soul, as beautiful and profane as anything that man could hope to write. Yet, it is as a book of human skin, just as vile and barbarous. Hear how he writes of slavery and his own suffering as allegory; _Je pense à la négresse, amaigrie et phtisique, piétinant dans la boue, et cherchant, l'oeil hagard, les cocotiers absents de la superbe Afrique eerrière la muraille immense du brouillard; À quiconque a perdu ce qui ne se retrouve, jamais, jamais!_  I can neither condone his actions, nor revile its beauty.”

Combeferre took the aged book from Prouvaire’s hands gently. Covering dark fingers with his own, and tightening them with in comforting stillness.

“I should not have bought it for you if it will upset you.”

“Oh, my dear Combeferre, there is nothing that cannot, in time, upset me. Whether it be poetry or the lives of the distressed. We do not live in a perfect world, and it is better for my sadness to be sweetened by beauty. At least for a time. Baudelaire is that beauty, and I thank you for it. Will you read to me?”

Combeferre unfurled his fingers from Prouvaire’s and adjusted his glasses down his nose, before taking up the time ravaged edition of _Les Fleurs du Mal_ on the countertop.

The light was dying in the room which they had claimed for a study. It was the opening gambit of evening, before the lamps and the house enclosed in warmth. This room was their space, even in their own home.  It is where Combeferre thinks, and Prouvaire writes. Where they sit in silence in the early morning hours, and a place of sanctuary from a world so far removed for their ideals.

There is conflict in this room even so; there are arguments, terse silences and quiet sighs.

But love reigns supreme.

It was this room, in the time when Combeferre had lived alone and the house had been his and not theirs, that Prouvaire had posited a mutual affection. And in this room where it had been consummated.

“Would you have me read in English or in French?”

Half as many of the books that line the walls are in languages beyond their own. Combeferre specialises in both the Indic and Germanic languages, although he extends his knowledge of medical Latin for pleasure if not necessity, while Prouvaire favours the words of the Romanics, the tales of the Slavics as well as the ancient and dead tongues, and the histories of which they imbue. They are a fluent household in many languages. New dictionary and international newspapers find their way into their home and translations of favourite literary specimens are gifted in footnotes and on scraps of paper for quiet moments.

“You are a man of many tongues, and many truths. Pick your truth, and tell it to me.”

Combeferre has only one truth, truth be told, the importance of freedom. But in the plurality of translation, freedom can have multiple purposes. And it is this, Combeferre know, is what Prouvaire refers to. Combeferre is honest where Prouvaire is quiet. His honestly is not always given in words. Sometimes it is in the gentle truths, to be measured in firm hands and secret smiles.

" _Blanche fille aux cheveux roux,_

_Dont la robe par ses trous_

_Laisse voir la pauvreté_

_Et la beauté,_

_Pour moi, poète chétif,_

_on jeune corps maladif,_

_Plein de taches de rousseur,_

_À sa douceur._ "

Prouvaire sunk into the soft leather, eyes closed as Combeferre’s words flowed over him like water.

“ _À Une Mendiante Rousse_? She was beautiful, I have seen her portrait.”

Her red hair had matted into ringlets, framing her sallow white face, and Prouvaire had felt the pain across the centuries. To think that he had walked her streets and breathed her air, and yet never seen her smile or heard her softly played guitar.

" _Tu portes plus galamment_

_Qu'une reine de roman_

_Ses cothurnes de velours_

_Tes sabots lourds_ "

Combeferre stops, as though knowing that Prouvaire is as much hers as he is his in this moment. That he has entrusted his heart to Combeferre, but for now his mind is afloat with her lives and losses. He cannot and will not begrudge Prouvaire his sensitivity. If the narratives of fictional struggles and sufferings can bring Combeferre to tears, as they often do, clouding behind his glasses and saddening his resilient soul, then Prouvaire’s softness for the living and once living can only be applauded.

The atmosphere is peaceful, serene. The freshness that accompanies the world after heavy rainfall.

Combeferre is so in love.

The time for reading is over, he has no desire to complete the poem. Let them breathe life into the unfortunate through other means, and set aside poetry.

Closes the book and sets it aside. It is not out of place in this room, the pages are old but not fragile, delicate but not breakable. There are books of far greater monetary value in this room, but in emotional weight. Poetry weighs on the soul. There are books far older, that are held reverently, and read rarely. There are books fresh from the presses. This is their haven, the amalgamation of the two of them in printed form.

Prouvaire’s hands are soft against his own.

“She has been memorialised as a queen.”

Prouvaire’s smile is pensive, yet bright; the stars shining against the midnight sky and he slowly, almost shyly, intertwines his fingers with Combeferre’s as they did on their tentative dates.

They had frequented art galleries, and public lectures, had snuck into academic wine receptions and kissed in the crooks and crannies of old country houses. Their courtship had been private, yet written in plain sight.

They had held hands like this.

“If only she had had a chance to live as a woman.”

Prouvaire’s reply is quiet but poignant, and Combeferre tightens his hold, before raising Prouvaire’s hand to his lips, brushing his next words against them.

“That is for what we now strive.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Come, let us set Baudelaire to the side. Your gift has been well received, let us move on to other matters.”

The old book has been handed down through multiple generations, and is inscribed on the title page. There are many, there is a faint pencilled hand detailing the book to _Delilah, from your beloved_ , below that _E.H. to M. C_. and now _For Prouvaire, may your soul ever take flight, Combeferre._

The title paged is riddled with past lives lived, and now, is set aside, for the lovers to live their own.


End file.
